


The Stars Threw Down Their Spears

by FayJay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-04
Updated: 2009-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-02 08:58:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayJay/pseuds/FayJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Castiel is badass, and Dean works through some of his daddy issues, and there is the hot sexin'. (PWP, people.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stars Threw Down Their Spears

It's not like Castiel had exactly been ambiguous with his instructions, so when he flat out ignored them, Dean did know that he was going to have to deal with a supremely pissed angel in the near future. He'd just managed to blot out the knowledge of precisely how fucking scary Castiel could be.

He remembers now, though. Kind of hard not to, with the angel framed in the doorway, his trenchcoat billowing and his brows lowered ominously. He looks as fierce and focused as Dean has ever seen him. Rain gusts through the open doorway and thunder rumbles in the distance, and Dean is wide awake and out of bed in an instant, his heart racing as he backs up against the candy-striped wallpaper. His eyes dart to Sam's bed, and he's both relieved and frightened to find it empty. Again.

“Castiel,” he says stupidly, reaching for words to deflect or soothe and able to think of absolutely nothing that will serve to diffuse the tension in the room. The door slams closed behind Castiel, and Dean flinches at the sound. He can feel it again, that deep buzz in his teeth and his bones that he remembers preceding the sound of Castiel's real voice, and he's trying to brace himself for shattering glass and ruptured eardrums, and it's only now that it strikes him that all that had been what happened when Castiel was just trying to _speak_ to him, not getting ready to rip him a new one. He doesn't know whether he'll be able to survive getting yelled at by the guy. “Look, I'm sorry,” he says inadequately, lifting his hands and trying for a rueful grin, but Castiel is still moving, pacing towards him with shoulders squared and that air of sheer, righteous _badassery_ that had, under other circumstances, made Dean feel like cheering, and right now makes him want to run like hell. Castiel's eyes are boring into him, cold and blue and unimpressed, and, shit, this is like disappointing Dad, only scarier. And now the angel is _right there_, just inches away, breathing the same air that Dean is breathing, and heat is rolling off him in angry waves, and Dean's starting to wish he'd not been quite so fucking cocky about defying his orders.

“You chose to interfere,” says Castiel, unsmiling. Dean swallows. At least he isn't making a new hole in the wall with Dean's head just yet, but Dean gets the disquieting sense that this might still be on the agenda. His pulse is fluttering in his throat, and he kind of wishes, pointlessly, that he wasn't just standing there in a t-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs, because that really isn't helping. He feels horribly defenseless and exposed, like a kid about to get their ass whupped good and proper for finally crossing one line too many.

Of course, this is kind of the reason why he _does_ keep crossing lines, since Dad's been gone.

“See, but it all worked out okay,” Dean says urgently, his hand raised up before him in an automatic gesture, as if anything he can hope to do could stave off the angel's might. And then his hands are back against the wall, Castiel pinning his wrists up beside his face and leaning right in to him, crowding him, and Dean tries to flinch away but can't. He's shocked, shaking, achingly vulnerable, and he cannot _believe_ that he ever lets himself forget what Castiel is. What he's dealing with. What the consequences might be. This isn't just a spanking he risks when he fucks around with the guy. It's Hell. Again. But Dean just doesn't have it in him to be quiet and cowed all the time – he's always got to rail, got to push the boundaries a little, just to check that they're there.

Turns out, they're definitely there.

“I know he's not supposed to use his powers, but didn't you see? He saved them all! If he'd done what Uriel said, then those kids would all have died. He saved them!” And Dean's talking too fast, but he's got to make Castiel understand that it wasn't really defiance, that they're still all on the same side here.

Castiel closes his eyes for a moment, his chest heaving, and his hands tighten their grip around Dean's wrists. It's painful, but not crushingly so, not injuriously so, so Dean keeps quiet and watches the angel's face nervously. He's reminded of the times when he'd seen Dad visibly struggle for control in order to keep from yelling, or from giving in to frustration and backhanding one of them, after they'd done something thoughtless and potentially lethal. Dad had never hit them, but he'd obviously been tempted a time or two.

“It worked,” Dean offers, shakily. “We all got out alive.”

Castiel leans forward a little more and rests his forehead against Dean's almost wearily. When he speaks, his voice is even, but it trembles with barely-restrained wrath, edged with a buzz of white noise. “But where is your brother now?”

Dean swallows. Excellent question. “He...I...” He licks his lips. “I don't know.”

“I do,” says Castiel, pulling his face back a little, just enough to look into Dean's eyes. “You are letting him unmake himself before your very eyes. He is becoming something terrible and I will have to intervene, if you have not the strength.”

Dean had thought he was scared before. Now, he is terrified.

“You're not going to lay a hand on Sammy,” he says fiercely. and Castiel makes a small, frustrated sound, releases his grip upon Dean's wrists and steps back. Dean is almost relieved, for a split second, but then he realises that he still can't move. He's pinned as surely as ever Azazel held him still, and the memories – his Dad's mouth shaping Azazel's words, his grandfather's body moving around like some kind of puppet – wring a startled gasp from him. “What are you doing?” He tries to break free, thrashes against the wall, and manages absolutely nothing. Castiel watches him dispassionately. “Don't you fucking _dare_ hurt Sam!” he yells.

“Do you begin to understand the gravity of this?” asks Castiel, his voice soft and dangerous. “You are the servant of the Lord, yet you ignore His will.”

“I'm sorry,” says Dean, wide-eyed. “I'm – it won't happen again. I get it. I'm sorry, really. I fucked up. Don't hurt Sam.”

Castiel looks at him with an expression Dean doesn't know how the hell to interpret. “I think you need reminding of the debt you owe the Lord,” he says, and his tone is thoughtful, almost abstracted.

“I remember! This - this is a great reminder,” says Dean hurriedly, squirming, his stomach clenching in dread. Don't send him back. Oh, fuck, don't send him back to Hell again. “I get it, I do, I'm sorry, okay?”

“You need to heed the Lord's commands, and treat me with respect,” says Castiel, his eyes still fixed on Dean's with a intensity that makes him shudder. And – something else, too. Something wildly embarrassing and inappropriate, and pretty fucking difficult to hide when a person's pinned to a wall wearing nothing but a threadbare tour t-shirt and a pair of black boxer briefs. He bites his lip, and tries to will Castiel not to look down.

Castiel, unsurprisingly, looks down.

Dean closes his eyes and tries to will the floor to open up underneath him. Way to go, body. Great timing. When a few moments have passed and he had not been struck by holy lightning, Dean opens his eyes again. Castiel is studying him with his eyes narrowed, taking in the sweat beading Dean's brow and the treacherous bulge in his underwear and doing some kind of impenetrable celestial math in his head.

“You know that you belong to us,” says Castiel experimentally, and Dean shivers at the note in his voice. “God's mercy is the only thing that keeps you from the pit.”

“Yeah,” says Dean hoarsely. “Yeah, I do get that. I know.”

“But you require more proof.”

“No, no, I'm good, thanks,” he says, his voice cracking.

Castiel steps slowly closer, his head tilted a little, and his tongue darts out pinkly to wet his lips. “I think that you want more,” he says, and then he cups Dean's untimely erection with one warm hand, and Dean groans, his face suddenly crimson. Castiel is looking at him like a scientist faced with a particularly baffling lab rat, and unfortunately this isn't doing a damn thing to decrease Dean's arousal. “What is it that will make you be obedient to the Lord?” Dean's pretty sure that he should have some kind of wise-ass comeback, but he's having trouble remembering his own name just now. Fuck. His eyes flutter open and he darts a sidelong look at Castiel before looking quickly away. The angel nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. “I see,” he says, and his fingers move with firm curiosity over Dean's erect flesh, and Dean groans aloud. “You need to know your place.”

And that shouldn't send such a rush of desperate yearning through him, especially since it reminds him of Alastair. But – Dean knows about being owned, and about limits, and about punishment. He knows about being somebody's property, about obedience. And maybe there are some marks upon his soul that nothing can remove – because maybe some of them were there from the beginning, just waiting to be acknowledged. Dean has always craved the security of an authority figure, has always been good at following orders. Has always liked being kept in line. He's never really trusted praise, but he understands punishment.

“No, I – I – no,” says Dean, but his hips are paying absolutely no attention to his mouth at all, and he's thrusting into Castiel's hand in spite of himself, the fabric growing damp between them. Castiel frowns, and looks down, and then looks back up into Dean's eyes with dispassionate fascination and moves his hand over Dean's erection, watching the way that Dean bites his lip and writhes. And then Castiel leans a little closer, and suddenly he's kissing Dean with a thoroughness and determination that just wrecks him.

“I do not want to hurt you, Dean,” Castiel breathes against his skin. “But I will do it if I must.”

Dean shudders and closes his eyes, and his head falls back against the wall. “Please,” he says, not knowing precisely what he's asking for but wanting it desperately, wanting that sense of safety, of yielding up control, wanting that, in whatever form it might take. “Please.”

Castiel has let go of him, has stepped back and is watching him through half-lidded eyes. Dean misses the warmth of his touch, misses the taste of his mouth. He is startled when he realises that his invisible bonds have vanished, and that he is no longer pinned to the wall. “Remove those clothes,” says Castiel, his voice pitched deeper than Dean is used to, and it's an order, not a request. Dean's mouth is dry, but he's pulling the t-shirt over his head in one swift moment and then wriggling red-facedly out of his underwear. And, yeah, looks like he's really doing this. Looks like he really wants this. Which is something he's not at all sure how to deal with, really, because this isn't who he normally thinks he is, in the daylight. This isn't something he's sure he wanted to know about himself. Only – it feels so sweet, so right, so fucking awesome, such a pure and perfect thrill to have that blue gaze burning into him, to have all this focused attention, to be chosen, and seen, and owned like this. He has no defense against this. He has been carrying Castiel's brand under his clothes all this time.

“Now show me how obedient and penitent you are.” Castiel is watching Dean very calmly. Dean licks his lips, his heart hammering in his chest, and then he drops down to his knees, bows his head and presses a kiss onto the leather of Castiel's shoe. And, damn, he shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be echoing things that Alastair made him do, shouldn't want that, not ever, but – this isn't Alastair. And - he wants to break Castiel's composure. A lot. He sits up again, looks up at the angel through his eyelashes and then leans forward and rubs his cheek against Castiel's crotch, breathing in, trying to catch Castiel's scent. He isn't hard yet, but Dean thinks he can do something about that, if Castiel's vessel still has any human reactions in place. And it's kind of killing him that he's buck naked while Castiel's standing there in his suit and tie and trench coat, but it's right too. It's exactly right. He lifts cautious hands and unfastens Castiel's zipper, watching the angel through his eyelashes all the while, and then he's touching the soft penis with sure fingers, enjoying the startling satin of it, licking ragged patterns over the skin, sucking wetly at the crown. He smiles when he feels it start to swell and harden under his attentions, and when he looks up Castiel is looking a little less calm. Dean smiles up at him, wicked and challenging, and moves forwards to swallow all of Castiel's half hard cock, licking and sucking wetly, making obscene slurping noises as he does his damnedest to make the angel come apart at the seams. He looks up when he feels Castiel's fingers closing on his head, and he's choking a little now, Castiel full and hard and too big to be comfortable, really, but the look of startled urgency on Castiel's face thrills him to the core. There's a difference between theory and practice, and it seems Castiel is just now discovering that.

Dean quickens his movements, enjoying the weight pressing down on his bottom lip, stretching his mouth, loving the wet slide of Castiel's heated flesh against him, and he wonders if this is the first time the angel has done something like this. He kind of thinks it is, and that's making him almost painfully hard, until he has to reach down and touch himself too, quick and clumsy, while Castiel thrusts into his mouth. He probably shouldn't be surprised that Castiel doesn't last very long, but he's still shocked when the angel jerks his erection free, and there's a blinding surge of light that makes Dean squeeze his eyes closed, the room abruptly bathed in brightness that he's aware of even through the thin skin of his eyelids, the world suddenly red, and when he opens his eyes he catches the after-image of enormous wings, impossible wings, wings far too vast to fit into this cramped little room. He can still hear them rustling in the distance, like a thousand birds all startled into flight. And then Castiel is suddenly coming all over Dean's face, splattering Dean's mouth and his cheekbone and even getting in his eyelashes, marking him all over again. Dean blinks, trying to wipe the mess from his eyelid without getting it into his eye, when Castiel wrenches him up and kisses him, smearing the stuff between them in the tangle of their tongues. And this kiss is fiercer than the first, this kiss is something hungrier, sullied by experience, wild and possessive. Castiel licks Dean's face clean, and when Dean opens his eyes he's taken aback by the angel's expression. He looks almost savage, almost incandescent, nothing like the controlled creature Dean has come to know. Something frightening, and beautiful, and new.

“I did not know that it would be like this,” Castiel says, more to himself than to Dean, and then he's kissing Dean again, and manhandling him over towards the bed, and it's not until Dean's sprawling on the covers with the angel kneeling between his parted thighs that he registers the fact that Castiel's hard again, his erection nudging Dean's ass. Dean swallows. Angelic refraction periods are evidently quite something. It occurs to Dean belatedly that he has no fucking idea just what he's got himself into here, introducing an angel of the Lord to the pleasures of the flesh. “You want to know who is in charge? You want to know your place?” Castiel pins Dean's hands down into the pillow, then leans down and kisses him again. “Dean Winchester, I _own_ you. See that you do not forget.”

Dean has no idea where the sachet of lube comes from – whether it just got conjured up out of thin air, or whether Castiel accio'd it from somebody's bag – but suddenly the angel's sliding the slick stuff over Dean's ass and pushing a finger inside him, watching his face all the while. And he's still _dressed_, still wearing his tie and his trench coat and everything, his cock poking out of the gap in his pants but otherwise he's still all covered up, while Dean's about as exposed and vulnerable as a person can get. Dean's panting, and he reaches down to touch himself but Castiel slaps his hand away. “No,” says the angel, glaring at him. “Not without permission.” Dean's head falls back on the pillow at that, and he just loses himself in the sensation of Castiel's fingers twining and thrusting inside him, stretching him, opening him up, his hips jerking helplessly and his cock leaking into his belly. He makes a wild, urgent sound the first time Castiel reaches his prostate, and then a little later he has to bite his hand to keep from shouting out as Castiel's erection nudges inside him, kind of painful but, God, so good.

This time, Castiel lasts a hell of a lot longer. He 's gripping Dean's hip with one hand, while the other, the one that branded him, is wrapped around Dean's dick, jerking him off with a ferocious urgency that isn't really comfortable, but is still doing a damn good job of shattering Dean into tiny pieces. Dean finally comes into Castiel's hand, gasping and desperate. Castiel pauses for a moment and then carries right on thrusting into Dean, his eyes hot and hungry and fixed on Dean's face, and he presses his sticky palm down over Dean's mouth, watching him. Dean moans, and then starts to lick the angel's hand clean, still bouncing helplessly underneath him, the jolts of pleasure he's getting from each thrust making him gasp.

“Please, please, please,” Dean moans into Castiel's palm, because this is it, this is too overwhelming, too much to bear when he's still kind of wrecked from his own orgasm, and he's losing himself here.

“You are _mine_,” says Castiel, punctuating each word with a thrust, his eyes bright and untender.

“Yes,” agrees Dean wholeheartedly. “Ye-es.”

“And you _will_ obey the Lord.”

Which has to be the most thoroughly fucking surreal thing anyone's ever said to Dean in bed, but what the hell, at this point Dean's totally going with it. “Yes,” he says, gazing back at Castiel with absolute sincerity, and that's when Castiel comes again.

Dean's just lying there, feeling wrung-out and aching while Castiel gets to his feet and adjusts his clothes. He looks irritatingly composed again, but at least his face is a little more flushed than usual. Still, Dean isn't about to be fooled that Castiel's just taken one for the team, whatever the angel might try to pretend. Castiel was _totally_ into it, and then some, and Dean ought to know. Dean sprawls bonelessly on the bed and watches the angel through his eyelashes.

Castiel is studying him like Dean's a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a delicious apple pie. He wets his lips. “Do not make me repeat myself.” And, shit, Castiel's voice is dark and smoky now, rich with an edge of thunder in it. It goes straight to Dean's exhausted cock and makes it twitch reflexively. “You must amend your ways.”

And then he's gone, and Dean is left alone in the room, trembling very slightly at the memory of the angel's voice, and wondering how soon he can get away with crossing another line.


End file.
